There are at least 10 pigeons gathered on my two windowsills and the two directly across the five-feet alley. They will not shut up. They’re making this woo-ing noise. It’s awful. It’s like what I imagine people hear in their heads just as they’re about to die. “Deathbed: The Soundtrack” or something. Oh shit. I’ve just jinxed myself. Please, if I’m dying, crank up the music. It can suck — it can be like those cheesy ’80s mixes that everyone loves (because “how can you not!”) but I hate. Anything but this. This is torture. I haven’t even fallen asleep yet. It’s 7:15 in the morning.

Just when I think they’re about to let up, one starts up again and then the rest “catch on” and become the chorus for the most awful song imaginable. I literally wish I could kill them. Look at me in the left corner, glaring at the pigeon and scheming. This is intense.

I probably couldn’t actually kill them. As soon as I opened a window, they’d fly away, and if one happened to fly into my apartment, it’s more likely that it would end up killing me. I just wish there was some sort of homemade poison pigeon-killing concoction, like an over-the-counter thing I could whip up in my one medium-sized pot and smear onto the entire side of my building. Maybe even superglue — the squawking would be horrible for a few days until they died, but at least their friends would have learned their lessons and I might get some cool digital photography out of it.

Speaking of CDP, this is the best (and worst) thing I’ve ever seen on Gawker. I don’t approve of security guards watching DVDs, but I wholeheartedly admire the person who took that photo. I’d probably mess it up by using a flash or something. Harold and Kumar. If that’s for real, it is truly priceless. Good thing that when I slack off at work, there’s no one sneaking behind my back and catching me in the act. Oh wait.

Finally, I’d like to extend a giant F-you to winter, courtesy of DR fan D.R. It must be from somewhere in Boston. My thoughts exactly.